Haunted
by Abe Lincoln Lover
Summary: Fleeing the opera house, Erik decides to reside in a house a little ways off from Rouen. There, he becomes acquainted with a boy named Erik Aucoin...
1. Requiem of an Opera Ghost

Erik ran for his life. He didn't know where he was going, but he decided that it was best that way. He ran through the catacombs, rushing to save himself from certain death, knowing that stopping would cost him his life. Finally he emerged into a dark alley, and checking to make sure nobody had seen him, he crawled behind some empty crates and hid. Hopefully, he wouldn't be found.

Now that he had time on his hands, Erik decided to actually come up with a plan. He could give himself up to the mob, or he could come up with a confusing plan to save his life. The choice was difficult, as Erik was already deeply depressed and had no desire to live without his dear Christine. However, he didn't want to die just yet, and so he made his decision.

He was going to live.

Designing his plan carefully, he ran through it multiple times to make sure there were no flaws. Of course, there were none.

Pulling his hood up, Erik walked out into the street, thankful it was cold out. His disguise wouldn't have worked otherwise, as most of the other people walking around also had their hoods up. Walking as fast as he could without running, he made a beeline for the graveyard. The place held the most important part of his plan - a dead body. So without a thought of regret, Erik grabbed a shovel that was laying near him and dug up the oldest body in the graveyard.

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><p>It had been three weeks since he put his plan into action. The old body was left in Erik's coffin with the finally completed opera, "Don Juan Triumphant". Now that Erik was sure that that was the time to do it, he wrote and sent his letter to the Daroga, telling him to put the notice in the paper.<p>

Erik's business at the opera house was finished now. All he had to do now was leave. And it was harder than he thought; it was like leaving your baby with a complete stranger. In a way, that was what he was doing - the Opera House was his baby, and now he was abandoning it. However, he continued walking away from it without any thought of returning.

Thus ends the legend of the Opera Ghost.

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><p><strong>AN: I plan on updating every so often, aka at least once a week. Sound good? It better. Also, updates come at around noon, okay? Okay. And yeah, this isn't the end. It's the beginning. Confusing, right? Ha!<strong>

**Oh yeah, next chapter coming soon!**


	2. Boscherville Beginning

Once out on the street, Erik began to look for a carraige. His destination was undefined - he hadn't bothered to think of where to go when he designed the plan. He knew that he couldn't stay in Paris - that fact was for sure. But where else to go? What was the point of actually being alive without a place to go or call home? Then it struck him - home. That was where he needed to be.

Finally inside the carraige, he sat. Such boring things, these carraige rides. Why would anyone ever want to take one for fun. Oh, that's right - everyone has someone else to share it with, to talk to. Erik didn't have anyone. Not Nadir, not Christine. He was suddenly struck with a feeling that he was unwanted.

_Well, _he thought, _of course you're unwanted! Who in their right mind would want a **Living Corpse**? Christine certainly did not, and Nadir betrayed you and led the boy into your lair._

The ride was very long and boring, but after many hours, he had finally reached Boscherville. It was a nice, quiet town at all hours of the day, but especially at night. Nobody was out, lights were on...it was like it was always calling for him, ready to display its prettiest side when he came. Erik was not tricked into thinking this way - he knew for a fact it was like this.

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><p>Finally Erik reached the town. He dismissed the carraige and walked to a place called "Sunset Inn". He paid for the room, and, after scaring the clerk out of his wits, went to discover the room.<p>

When he reached the door 109, Erik was amazed. He had only just opened it to see bright colors glaring at him. He felt somewhat out of place - heck, he was out of place! - in the room, as his clothes were as black as the night's sky.

The room itself was handsome - one wall had a bed, side table, and cushioned chair pushed up to it; another wall had a giant window; the third wall had a dresser and table; and the fourth wall had nothing save the door to the hall. Erik appreciated the simplicity. He suddenly found his adrenaline wearing off, so he collapsed on the bed and allowed the world of nightmares to overtake him.

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><p><strong>AN: Like it? Please review!<strong>


	3. Boscherville Uncovering

The sun was low on the horizon when Erik woke. He reached over and plopped his mask on his face, dismissing the protests in his thoughts.

_I hate this thing_, Erik thought. _Every day it goes on, only to have me gawked at! I haven't done any wrong..._

His thoughts rambled on until the sun was halfway up to it's peak. After getting out of bed, he dressed and readied himself for the day. He checked out of the inn, whose clerk joyfully told him to _**have a nice day **_and _**come again soon**_. Erik was not amused and refrained from simply flicking his wrist and strangling the boy to death out of annoyance.

Erik slipped through the shadows unnoticed (thanks to the houses and position of the sun) and headed for the town realtor. He noticed, though, that a fairly large spider had crawled onto him and was on his coat. Quietly he cooed it onto his hand and placed it on the ground in front of him. To him, it would have been quite rude to the spider to just brush it off or kill it – there was absolutely nothing it had done wrong! It couldn't help the fact that it was ugly and scary looking. _Yes_, he remarked to himself in a barely audible voice, _they are just like you..._

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><p>Ambling on to the realtor in a slightly cautious manner in the shadows makes you suspicious, of course, so to Erik, it wasn't much of a surprise that he felt a tap on his shoulder. Reluctantly turning around, he came face to face with...nothing. He turned around, but his gaze was caught finally by a giggling child whose head reached his mid-torso standing right in front of him.<p>

More or less speechless, he stuttered out the word, "Hello".

The boy stopped laughing and returned the greeting. As the masked stranger turned and started to walk away, the youth trailed behind him. Erik was aware of the boy following him from the moment he turned his back on him (literally). Not bothering to talk to the child, Erik strolled into the realtor's house and rang the bell.

The realtor came in through an interior door, somewhat confused at seeing a dark, masked figure in the center of the room. Mentally shaking, he introduced himself as _**M. Dupont, Realtor**_. Erik did not care for the greeting ritual in the beginning of conversations, so began his request.

Monsieur Dupont looked quite relieved after Erik's speech was finished. After receiving a questioning look from him, Dupont told him, "It appears that I know of a house that should fit your needs. It is a tad bit out of town, slightly run down, but other than that it is fine."

After the address had been told, the forgotten boy spoke up, "No, Monsieurs! That house is haunted! My maman told me that there was a thing with a demon's face there!"

_There it is_, Erik thought angrily. _There it is – proof that I am no person. Just a __**thing **__with no feelings whatsoever._

Dismissing the boys words and managing to keep his temper in check, Erik bought the house which he had learned to hate as a child. He now was home in Boscherville.

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you all enjoyed!<strong>

**Erik:** I still hate you...

**Me:** Stop being so moody all the time!

**Erik:** ...

**Me:** ...Grouch...

**AN: My, it seems I have captured Erik! Now he must become part of my talk show; _FAKE TALK SHOW_!**

**Erik: **That's seriously the name?

**Me: **Yup. Get used to it.

**AN: Read _FAKE TALK SHOW_ on my profile page!**

**Me & Erik: **...

**Me: **Okay, then, I'll say it. 'K bye!


	4. Boscherville Memories

The old abandoned house stared down at Erik. He was thankful for his current solitude – he was sweating from mental pressure and didn't want to be seen in a state of weakness. Soon, though, he began to calm down enough to insert the key into the ancient door's lock, open it, and step into the dusty, old house.

It was exactly as Erik remembered it. Well, not _exactly_. There was no Marie Perrault at the door; she was nowhere to be found. The man walked through the house checking for a sign of life; nothing was found. He soon reached his own bedroom's door and opened it a crack. It was as if a tornado had came through – the bed was in pieces, the window was shattered, everything was broken! _Apparently the town's children attacked after Marie left_, Erik thought grimly.

Indeed, that was the way it looked. His heart throbbed at this revelation; the room he had been confined to in his earlier years had horrible memories, yet it still was his room, the room which he had sung, drawn, invented, and composed. Closing the door, Erik was once again in the hallway, but this time with a much more broken heart.

Walking down the hallway, he came across the dining room, the place he celebrated his fifth birthday. The scars on his wrists ached a bit at the memory, but he put his feelings aside and continued to the next room.

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><p>After exploring the house, Erik was extraordinarily tired. It wasn't physical; it was the mental pain inflicted on him by his memories. He wanted nothing more than to torch the place to the ground, but the satisfaction wouldn't have lasted long, and would've soon been replaced with remorse.<p>

Pushing his idea to the farthest, darkest corner of his twisted mind, Erik came across a problem; where was he to sleep? His bed was in shambles, his mother's bed was out of the question. That left the couch; surely it would do well.

He arrived at the living room, strode into the space, and stretched himself out on the couch. Uncomfortable, small, and musty all described this "bed". Knowing this, Erik braced himself for a restless night.

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><p>Madeleine stood in front of Erik, her whole figure imposing. She stood as if waiting for an answer; her arms were folded across her chest, her foot was tapping. Next to her stood a terribly nervous Marie Perrault, and they both stood, staring at Erik. The child looked scared, as if the answer to the question Madeleine had asked stood behind his mind's reach. He began to shake as the mother raised her hand and slapped him. The hand was ice cold, as if his own hand was slapping him. Why hadn't he known the answer?<p>

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><p>Erik awoke at dawn from the nightmare. Sleep had not been willing to release him from its bonds, claiming him prisoner to his own memories. He rose from the couch, freshened himself up in the bathroom, and sat down bored. He had no plans for the day – how could he? He had just moved here...perhaps the townspeople would drop in for a visit and wish him welcome...<p>

But that thought was ridiculous. The people were afraid of the house, thinking it were haunted. Of course it was silly for the current resident to be afraid; he was the _thing _they were afraid of. The _thing_ with the demon's head, like the young boy had said.

Erik felt the sudden urge to see his bedroom again. Opening the door once more, he felt a question hop into his head. _What a question_, Erik thought. _Why hadn't I thought of it yesterday?_

He then turned his thoughts to finding the answer. Why had they left the rest of the house in order and only destroyed his room?

Determined to find the answer, Erik sat on the piano bench in the parlor. He sat until he found a few theories, but none seemed like they were the real answer. Soon he felt very overwhelmed, so he turned on the bench and opened the piano lid.

The sight that met his eyes was an outrage! The keys had about an inch of dust and grime on them, while their actually coloring was more brown than white.

Most of the keys were chipped a bit. Erik felt a twinge of hatred for whoever was left in charge of this once beautiful instrument. He set his hands onto the keys and turned his resentment into captivating music.

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><p>It was well into the afternoon when Erik heard a knock on the door. Surprised, he stopped playing a felt himself stand. He walked to the entry door and readied himself. Though these last few days had made him be social, he still didn't like being around people.<p>

The sight that met his eyes when the door was opened was the same little boy who had followed him the day before. Confused, Erik invited him in.

Once again, Erik uttered the polite word to this little child - "Hello".

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><p><strong>AN: Mwahaha! Cliffhanger! <strong>**I think I might just leave you hanging for a while. But please, review! Your comments inspire me to write! **

**Me:** Erik ran away, so now my muse is gone! Isn't that scary?

***falling-down sounds coming from closet***

**Me: **Oh, do be quiet, Nadir! Erik does not know that you're here, and I intend to keep it that way!

**Nadir: ***muffled sounds*

**Me: **Well, at least the gag is working!

**AN: Erik, please do come back! If anyone has seen him, please PM me. Reward is the next chapter!**


	5. Boscherville Relations

Erik betrayed none of his emotions in his eyes. No disbelief, nervousness, anger, concern – all the emotions he felt were locked up inside him with no window for people to look in and see. All the same, he invited the boy into his house.

"Hello, Monsieur! My friends and I were wondering if you'd be able to live a whole night in this house, but I guess we found our answer..."

_I guess the whole town has found out about me, then. All thanks to this boy, _Erik thought murderously. Steadying his rage, he proceeded to converse with the child.

"There is nothing wrong with this house. Now, could I inquire as to your name?"

"Erik Aucoin. What's your name?"

The masked man was slightly taken aback by the boy's blunt, straight-to-the-point questions and answers. He was also quite shocked at the boy's first name.

"I am Erik Boucher. It is a pleasure to meet you," Erik lied. _Boucher; what a fitting name,_ he smirked inwardly.

"Wow! We have the same name! I was named after my grandmother's uncle. He was a priest in this town. Were you named after anyone?"

_Hmph! _Erik thought. _He's probably related to Father Mansart._

Choosing his words carefully, he cautiously replied "My mother named me after the town priest, Father Mansart. I suppose you are related to him?"

"Oh, yes! I never got to meet him – he died so many years ago..."

_Died? Yes, people die all the time... but Father Mansart? _Erik desperately tried to calm his alerted state. He knew subconsciously that the man must have died – he was around the age of 50 at the time of his birth – but it had never occurred to him that he was dead. He was never going to see the man who helped him explore his talents, the man who taught him about music. The fact struck him hard, like a boulder thrown at him. _Never again..._

"Monsieur, how did you make it through the night? There's a demon that haunts this house, you know..."

"Mon dieu, are you foolish enough to think that a demon really haunts this house? I assure you; there is nothing wrong with this building!"

"Haven't you heard the story?"

"No, I suppose I have not! What is it that the people say about this place?" Erik questioned. Inwardly he smirked, knowing full well that whatever this made-up demon was, it certainly wouldn't be attacking him. Why, of course, would he attack himself?

The boy spoke the story;

"A long time ago, there was a woman who gave birth to a monster. They say he was the living dead – his face looked like a skull and his body was bone thin. His eyes glowed yellow – wow, just like yours, Monsieur! - and they say he was a demon. Some even say he was the devil himself! Nobody saw much of him – he made himself invisible. Sometimes, he even had the guts to go into the church and play the organ! The music haunted the town at night, and all the residents would be scared out of their skins.

One day, the village had had enough! They rioted against the house, and drove the monster away... or so they thought! Even now, we think that the monster lives on – the lady living in the house went mad and destroyed the monster's room. My friends and I wanted to burn the whole place down, but we never had a chance..."

Erik smirked during the story. Thankfully, the boy thought he was smirking at the "monster", and not the fact that the story was completely messed up. It was hilarious! _Poor Marie, _he thought with his smirk fading. _She went crazy, locked up in this house. Associating with my mother and I certainly brought down her social status, I guess. She couldn't even walk outside, if she just stayed here. Like my mother, she was shunned. Like Madeleine._

The boy, now proud of himself for telling the story, asked, "What do you think, Monsieur? Do you think it's real?"

Deciding to tell the truth, Erik said, "Of course it's true, but some parts probably got messed up over the years."

"Didn't you live here when that thing did?"

There it was again – thing. _Didn't you live here when that **thing **did? _A completely innocent question. However, it took everything he had to not fly into a rage.

"Yes, but I don't remember much of it. I left when I was nine."

"Oh... well, if anything strange happens, tell me."

"Fine. Bonjour, Monsieur Aucoin."

He led the boy to the door. The boy turned around and said, "Monsieur, just one question before I go – why do you wear that mask?"

Erik's heart stopped. He stared at the boy, hardly believing what he had just inquired. _The mask! I forgot about the mask! _he thought angrily. Searching for a solution, he found one easily.

"I wear this mask because of an accident. My house burned down to the ground, and my face along with it. Good-bye, now, Monsieur."

And he closed the door.

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><p>Erik smirked as he stood, tall as ever in front of the door. Sure, he would get pity from the people of the town, but that was better than hatred. <strong>Always<strong> better.

Retreating back to the piano, he continued the piece he had been interrupted from. He closed his eyes, letting his long, skinny fingers play whatever keys they liked. It was not like his organ which he so longed to play, but it was good enough for him. The flowing melody coming from the large, black instrument erupted his insides with pleasure, calmness... happiness. Never before had he felt so wonderful. The song itself was full of all the feelings he felt now, the slow yet happy tune putting a smile on his masked face. His **ugly** face. But suddenly, he didn't feel as ugly. He felt just as handsome as any other man on the street, walking with his wife, arm in arm.

The piece stopped abruptly. Anger filled him, and he could no longer stand the gentle music. He played an aria from _Don Juan Triumphant_, and his anger subsided. No, he would not let his anger fill him to the blowing point, the point where he had to let it all out with music. He would not abuse music like that – his _Don Juan Triumphant_ was an ugly piece, filled with **anger, hatred, **and** sadness**. He knew, on that day, that he was never going to play that horrid opera ever again.

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><p>The boy stood still outside the door as he heard the masked man go to the piano. The music was undescribable. More than beautiful... better than Mozart and Beethoven. He snook around to the parlor window and sat down underneath it. <em>Did the Monsieur really write that piece? I've never heard it before... <em>young Erik Aucoin thought. The music stopped abruptly. A few moments of silence followed...

The music assaulted the boy's ears. Such horrible, beautiful sounds emitted from that piano, and the man himself played it! To be able to switch suddenly between the two pieces was maddening...

The music again stopped. More silence proceeded... then more of the beautiful music that he had heard before. Relief flooded through him – the horrible music from before was gone from the world. The notes came out softly, in sharp contrast to the loud, wretched noise that irritated his ears. This man, the boy knew, was very different, the way he played on without the slightest sign of irritation from the previous sounds.

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><p>Erik felt the piece come to an end. He never chose to end pieces; his hands worked by themselves. He stood, and overcome with sudden exhaustion, staggered over to the couch. It was uncomfortable, yes; but the coffin had been, too. He would simply have to get used to it.<p>

The dreamworld spiraled around him, clutching him and throwing him inside. _Christine...oh, Christine! I love you so much! Why can't you see? _His mind tortured him with memories of **her**. The girl who ruined his peace of mind. She had intruded on his solitude; destroyed his shield against the world.

But was it really her fault? She had never wanted any of this to happen. No, the guilt was left to the other person now. It was **his** fault.


	6. Boscherville Including

Three days went by without a problem. For those three days, Erik laid on the couch in a light slumber, but never awoke until the forth day when the doorbell rang. Opening his eyes, he noticed crossly that the windows were open, curtains open, and sunlight was flooding the room. He, overcome with sudden nausea, stumbled passed the coffee table and reached for the curtains. Tugging them closed, he heard the doorbell once again.

Spinning around, he briskly walked to the door, straightening out his clothes as he took each step. Then, as he reached for the doorknob, he raised his other hand to his face to reassure himself that his mask was still on. Thankfully, it was.

Gently opening the door, Erik took in the sight before him. The young Erik Aucoin from days before stood there, along with three other children. The new members stared at the masked man before them with awe, wonder, and something else. Was it fear? Excitement? Respect? As Erik stared back, it wasn't with any of these emotions. It was with plain dislike. However, his eyes betrayed nothing as he invited them into his house.

Trying not to take notice as they gawked at the furniture and paintings, Erik led them into the living room. As they all sat, Erik suddenly felt his stomach topple over. _What do those kids want?_

As young Erik Aucoin introduced everyone, Erik took notice of each boy and examined them carefully. The Aucoin boy had short, straight blonde hair, much unlike his own. The boy's face was quite unblemished, a perfect pair of ocean blue eyes looked from each person to another has introductions were made.

Another boy, Ronald Leroy, had light, sandy hair. Coffee brown eyes stared at the full face mask covering Erik's face. His face was also perfect, which Erik despised.

Arnold Roux had piercing green eyes. His flaming red hair fit his name wonderfully, and his face had quite a few freckles on it.

Charles Grosvenor was the last boy. Dark brown hair, almost black, covered his head, and his eyes were a light shade of green, almost yellow. Erik hated the boy for being what he should have been. He silently cursed his face, the source of all his unhappiness.

Sadly, once introductions were done, the questions came, erupting from each boy's mouth.

"Why did you buy this house?"

"This house is haunted, didn't you know that?"

"Why do you wear that funny mask?"

"Have you heard the story about the demon?"

Alerted by the amount of chatter in his preferably silent house, Erik shushed the boys, saying, "Quiet! I cannot answer any of these questions when they come three at a time! Now, ask them _orderly_." He articulated the last word with annoyance. Why should he have to answer the questions? Why did he have to do any of this? Oh, yes, that's why – he needed to fit in so that nobody would get suspicious. _Rewards like this have very high prices to pay,_ he thought viciously.

Seething inside, calm outside, he readied himself for the questions. Then the first boy spoke;

"Why do you wear that funny mask?"

Erik was ready for this. In reply, he spoke confidently, "That is of no concern of yours. If you must know, I had an incident when I was younger."

The next boy went, asking, "Are you scared of the demon?"

"No, of course not! That foolish nonsense about the demon is nothing more than a tale gone wrong."

"Monsieur, you must believe! The demon won't be happy if you don't..."

"Ha! The _demon _you speak of so often must be **happy** to finally have someone who doesn't believe with their heart and soul that its real – it now has a new challenge. Believing makes it much too easy for it. It's probably bored out of its wits by now!"

"If you say so, Monsieur... but don't say I didn't warn you when you get attacked!"

_Like there is anything to attack me, _the masked man painfully thought. They thought of him as a demon. It hurt him so much that even as a child he was a horrible monster, worthy of nothing good. He frowned.

Charles spoke next. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't it get lonely?"

"No."

"That's strange. I would get bored if I didn't have my older brother with me."

_You wouldn't get bored if you spent your whole life locked away, _Erik thought resentfully. Something about this boy ticked him off... was it, perhaps, the fact that the boy had all the privileges that had been denied to Erik so long ago? No, that probably wasn't it... everyone else had them... but didn't he hate humanity? They all strutted around, heads held high, taking everything that happens to them for granted. Associating with people, living in a nice house... those things that Erik had desperately looked for as a young man. Half a century after his birth, he finally realized that he was always meant to be alone. Life was cruel.

Life was very cruel.

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><p>After all the boys left for home, Erik let out a sigh of relief. The boys were irksome and irritating, annoying and aggravating. He vowed to never again let them into his house, but subconsciously knew that he would have to, for the sake of "fitting in". He had lied to the children so that he could "fit in". He felt horrible for doing that, and knew with an air of disappointment that he never would fit in. <em>Life is cruel, <em>he angrily raged in his head. Why him? Why did he have to be stuck with this accursed face? He hadn't done anything wrong to receive it – all wrongs he did were in some way related to his face. The rosy hours in the Mazenderan were, in fact, quite the fault of his face. Had he been born normal, he would never have discovered his talents or learn to kill. He would have grown up in Boscherville with his mother loving and caring about him. The little sultana would have had to find some other way to satisfy her hunger for murder.

In an attempt to drive away the thoughts that ate at him, the thoughts that tumbled and tumbled around in his head making things unclear to him, Erik placed himself onto the piano bench and rested his fingers on the keys. _What to play, what to play... what will make me forget? Just to forget for now... _

His thoughts rumbled in his head shaking his sanity. Finally he decided on a piece and played. On and on, he played. Sometimes he played the same piece over again, sometimes he modified the ending so that it would be longer, and sometimes he simply switched to a new song. He didn't care what he did – he was voluntarily hypnotized by the music that erupted from the beautiful, black and white piano in front of him.

He played and played. He played because he was certain of one thing.

As soon as he stopped, he would be immersed in those horrible, terrifying thoughts once again.

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><p><strong>AN: There you go! Hope you like it! And Thaovyphantran, I won't say if Christine will make her appearance in this story. Actually, I have something special in store for Erik... and he won't like it. :)<strong>

**Me: **Wow, AN, you just ruined the beautiful moment.

**Erik: **And you broke reality.

**Me: **By talking to something that doesn't exist? I'm just plain awesome!

**AN: I don't exist?**

**Erik: **I'm just confused...

**Me and AN: **Good!

**Erik: ***O_O*

**AN: What? Do I have something on my shirt?**

**Erik: **Holy $&%, it just talked to me! *runs into closet*

**Me: **What's wrong, Erik?

**Erik: **YOU'RE BENDING REALITY, THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG!

**Me: **Oh! Oh, okay. Bye! *walks away*

**Erik: **Nadir, you did not see anything.

**Nadir: ***muffled sounds*

**Erik: **No. That gag will stay on. *walks out of closet and locks the door*

**AN: Okay... so this is just a tad bit weird. Anyway, I will conclude by straightening out this detail;**

**In my story, "the rosy hours of the Mazenderan" means that the time in Persia was bloody. I'm not saying that this is what Gaston Leroux meant; I'm just saying my view.**

**I haven't begged for reviews before, so I won't now. But, you know, an author loves reviews. But I'm _totally __not_ begging for reviews.**

**Anyway, next chapter will come out in approximately some time.**

**Just kidding. Expect it by tomorrow night.**

**And don't you dare think I am begging for reviews.**

**LOL**


	7. Out Shopping

**AN: Ha, ha! I said that this would be up last night, but it WASN'T!**

**Me: **And the funny part is that even though this took a "long time", it's still pretty short!

**AN: I know! Isn't that hilarious?**

**Erik: ***in closet*

**Me: **Okay, so you guys might want to know when the next one will be up. I'm thinking Friday night. I'm not trying to lie, here. You see, I'm just having writer's block. Erik keeps hiding in the closet, so my muse keeps losing connection.

**Erik: **You are referring to those cellular phones, aren't you?

**Me: **Two things: 1) No, I'm not referring to cell phones, and 2) You sound like an old man.

**Erik: **I'm not exactly young, am I?

**Me: **No, I suppose you aren't... oh, well, on with the story!

**Erik: **Mon dieu, what do you have in store for me?

**Me: **MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (etc.)

**Erik: **Er...

**AN: Okay, since Erik is a teensy bit creeped out and this "Me" person is laughing like a maniac, I guess the story will start! Enjoy!**

**AN #2: But wait! Has anyone noticed?**

**AN: Noticed what?**

**AN #2: That this author's note is at the TOP instead of the BOTTOM!**

**AN: Oh! I just realized that!**

**AN #2: We've had too many author's notes ruin the beautiful cliffhanger endings, so we got moved up here.**

**AN: Okay, that's fine with me. Story, start now, please!**

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><p>He was left alone for the following week. Deciding that he was finally hungry, Erik left his house at the break of dawn for the food market. Recalling the fact that his mother always left the house on foot, he decided that the town probably wasn't too far away, and so he set out on foot.<p>

When Erik stepped into the market, nobody looked up at him, most likely because there was barely anyone there to gawk. He smiled, and knew full well that the small amount of people there couldn't see it, as he was wearing a full-face mask. Abandoning his spot in the doorway, he approached the clerk at the counter. The boy, probably only twenty years of age, looked up at him in surprise, but quickly shook himself and said the proper greeting.

"Bonjour, Monsieur! How can I help you today?"

Erik looked at the boy, those dark holes called eyes scrutinizing his every being. After what felt like an eternity, he replied.

"One loaf of bread."

"That is it? Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

"Okay... that will be ten francs."

Paying the money, the masked man left the market. Why did people always have to question his diet? Food, to him, was something disgusting; disturbing. He forced it down his throat every week or so, but had no clue why. Why live? There was nothing to live for, now that Christine was gone. _Oh, Christine..._

Arriving once more at his house, Erik sat at the dining table. It was seated for three. He imagined his mother, newly wed to his father, preparing this room for the perfect little family he was supposed to be living in.

Madeleine had lost her husband. When she finally had her first son, it turned out to be a monster.

Looking at the situation at this perspective, Erik felt some sympathy for her. She had just wanted a family with no problems. After she had had him, she had taken all her sadness and turned it into anger. _The poor woman, _Erik frowned guiltily. He had hated her for about half a century, and only after she was dead and gone did he realize that he loved her.

But had she loved him?

Erik answered this question easily; she had not left with that doctor, Etienne Barye. She had chosen to stay with her son.

But then he had ran away.

Guilt flooded through him. His mother had finally decided that she loved him, but before she could show that, he was gone. His final words to his mother were of sadness and hatred;

_Forget me..._

Madeleine had not forgotten him. She remembered him until the day she died. She had cared about him.

_She had cared about me... my mother, who had refused my one birthday wish, who showed me nothing but cruelness, cared for me... so unlike Christine._

Anger boiled through his veins, but not at his mother. No, his mother was a good woman. The anger was at his _darling _Christine Daae... or was it Christine _de Chagney_?

That boy had taken the love of his life away. Erik had given her her voice, her enchantingly beautiful voice. He had molded it together with his. Her voice was his, so why couldn't the rest of her be his?

* * *

><p>Looking back at the bread, Erik grimaced in disgust. He stood up and left the room.<p>

Eating could wait.

His current necessity, however, could not. So, with that, he took out some paper and returned to the piano bench.

Composing was something that Erik would die without. It made him feel handsome, as handsome as any man out on the streets at that current moment. He had shared this gift of his by writing it for his student.

This time, however, was not one for Christine. He vowed right then and there to never make one for another living being.

This time was for his mother.


	8. New Life

_**One year later...**_

Erik sat at his desk, glaring at all the piles on it. Portraits, compositions, scientifical findings; all the work he had done during his time living in the house. Wearily looking at the musical scores, he scooped them up and tossed them into the fire. None of it was worth keeping. His composing ability just seemed to have dried up ever since Christine left, leaving him with just enough of the ability to make emotionless pieces. He wanted to make warm, inviting pieces, not cold, heartless inked papers. _Maybe the fire will warm the cold, _Erik thought as he stared, frowning, at the hearth.

He was tired of composing. Tired of music. He had felt this before, but it seemed to have worsened over the year.

It seemed that Christine had stolen not only his heart, but his music. But she had only returned the fractured remains of his love, keeping his beautiful gift to herself.

_Is this what dying feels like? Losing all love, all the love you've ever had? I am dying, it seems. I am dying of a broken heart._

Erik stayed immersed in thought. What else was there to life? He was over half a century old and had mastered all the arts. Was it... but that was unthinkable! There had to be something else! Something worth living for.

_I have mastered the arts. Painting, composing, singing, playing, magic, even murder! My abilities lie from medicine to illusion; contracting to ventriloquism. What else is there?_

As Erik continued to explore his mind for ideas – and draw a blank – he unconsciously left the room, opened the front door, and stepped out. He wandered through the orchard, roamed the garden, and returned back to the porch.

_That is it! That is what I shall do! _Erik gratefully acknowledged. The idea had finally hit him, and right then and there he stopped. Looking around, he became confused. Hadn't he just been in front of the hearth?

Sadly for him, he did not know that he had wandered around while thinking. Finally scrutinizing his location, he finally surmised that he was on his porch, just outside his house. _I really have to be more careful when I think_,Erik thought.

* * *

><p>Stepping inside his house, he only had a chance to wonder about who could help him in this new task when little Erik Aucoin raced down the cobblestone path. "Hello, Monsieur!"<p>

_Oh, dear..._

Erik had grown a specific dislike and friendliness to this child who visited him weekly, the same feeling that he felt towards Nadir. The feeling was hard to explain; he missed him when he was gone, but found him annoying once here. "Hello, Monsieur Erik. What news do you have that is so important that you have run all the way here?"

"How did you tell?"

"You're panting like a dog, but never mind that; _why are you here?_"

"Mother isn't feeling well and sent me out of the house."

"_What? _Her baby is supposed to come this week! It could be coming this second! Why wouldn't she want you at its birth?"

"I don't know... I've seen all the other births."

"Come! We must head to your house now!"

"But Monsieur – it's so far away!"

"You ran here, didn't you? You should be able to run back!"

"But -"

"We are going."

Erik's long legged steps equaled three of the boy's tiny ones. After a few minutes of fast-paced walking, the child slowed.

"What is it?"

"I'm so tired! I've ran this path one and a half times today!"

"Fine! You do not have to walk anymore," Erik replied. Instructing the other Erik to climb onto his back, the boy did so without complaint. But, as soon as the boy was up and on, he commented, "Wow, Monsieur, you're very thin!"

Continuing at his pace, Erik coldly answered, "I've heard."

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

><p>They reached the house in record time. By the time Erik stepped into the house, the midwife was already prompting Madam Aucoin with the birth. Suddenly feeling unwelcome, he stayed out of the room and lurked about the hallway. <em>This seems so painful, yet Madam Aucoin has done this seven times! What are women thinking when they decide to have children? <em>Erik wondered. It just seemed so crazy...

Erik was vaguely aware of the woman's cries of pain. Finally, after a couple of hours, they stopped, leaving him breath a sigh of relief. The cries of pain were replaced by cries of joy and... what was that horrible noise?

A wretched shrieking annoyed his ears. The baby had such a sexless voice. _Did my voice sound like that? It couldn't possibly have – Mother would have killed me on the spot._

Abruptly jerked out of his swirl of thoughts by the little Aucoin boy who was motioning for him to see the baby, Erik followed him into the room.

The baby was so... ugly!

Yet the mother looked on with love and adoration. The infant wasn't deformed like Erik had been. It was a perfectly normal baby.

_If all normal babies are ugly, then why didn't Mother love me?_

Erik looked at the baby with agonizing jealousy.

Then, the mother spoke.

"Would you like to hold Clarice, Monsieur Boucher?"


	9. Clarice

The tiny girl looked around. Faces were everywhere. She took notice of a woman looking down at her, smiling, holding her. Her lips were moving; she was speaking to someone. Now another person was in the room. His face didn't look like the lady's face. It was black and looked fake. Was it?

* * *

><p>Erik stared down at the child. She was attempting to grab his mask. That, of course, would not do. Keeping his face well out of reach from the infant's wild hands, he continued to allow his eyes to bore holes in the girl's. The baby seemed to realize that the man staring at her was different than other people, but did not know why. All she knew was that Erik's face was covered with a strange material that made him look different than her mother. Sadness coursed through him. <em>Even children are borne wanting to strip me of this mask, <em>he thought melancholily.

Madame Aucoin smiled at the infant. _Had my mother ever smiled at me? No, not even once. Not even a fake smile would be allowed for a monster. _Erik glared at the infant. Thankfully, nobody saw, as they were all too busy watching the small person.

Thoughts flooded through Erik.

_Had I ever been that small? Had anyone ever been proud of me? Why was this child born the way I wasn't? How can this possibly be fair?_

His thoughts droned on and on. The child simply looked apologetically up at him, as if she knew of his sadness and horrible life. The masked man knew that if the girl ever saw his face, she would never scream and run away. _Christine, oh, my dear Christine, _Erik bemoaned silently. It seemed that everything he did brought back thoughts of her. A year of separation had not done its job.

* * *

><p>A specific man sat in a cushioned chair facing the crackling fireplace. He removed the pipe from his mouth and blew. Replacing the wooden object, Nadir thought about his dear friend.<p>

The last time he had seen him was when Erik confided in him that he was dying of heartbreak. At first, Monsieur Khan had thought nothing of it. Then his friend sent him the letter telling him to put his obituary into the paper.

Hoping to heal him before he died, Nadir had called for a cab and gone to the Opera House. Running through the cellars, he found the site he thought he'd never see;

The dead body of his friend in the coffin, proclaimed in the center of the mastermind's room.

* * *

><p>Erik felt relieved to go home. Why had he insisted upon going to the Aucoin household for the birth? Any gathering involving people was much too crowded for his taste. Erik smirked in spite of himself.<p>

* * *

><p>Christine de Chagny held her son close to her. She let out an exasperated breath and rocked the young toddler back and forth. Still, the boy continued to cry, and the young mother looked tiredly down at him. He had been born just two weeks before, and he was still crying his head off.<p>

Finally, he stopped. Silence filled the air. Letting out a sigh of relief, Christine kissed the baby Charles and set him down in the crib. She sunk down into the bed beside her and instantly fell asleep, despite the small detail of it being the middle of the day. No worries, though – she would wake up a couple hours later to the sound of bawling once more.

* * *

><p>Erik looked around the room. Something caught his eye. He stood up from his writing desk and strolled over to it. Sitting down at the bench, he caressed the piano. He then sat his hands upon the keys like he had done so many times before. Pressing his index finger down on the G, he began a tune unlike any written before. Grabbing some paper, he began to compose.<p>

His muse was back in the form of an infant named Clarice.

Suddenly he didn't feel any negative emotions towards the little baby he had met that day.


	10. To Have a Muse Once More

The man played and played. The house was filled with wonderful music, music so joyful that one would never had guessed that the source of it was a sorrowful, pitiable creature that had killed so many people that he had lost count. The music disguised the hurt the man felt deep down inside of himself, hurt that had been turned into anger numerous occasions.

He stopped the music. Looking at his hands, he was horrified by the fact that his hands had taken away the privilege of life from so many human beings. Pushing himself away from the piano, he ran to the kitchen sink. Turning on the hot water, he forced his hands into the scorching stream.

He wanted to wash away the guilt, the murders, the terrified faces on his victims, the laughter of the little sultana, everything. He was insane – he knew that much, as one can hardly survive three years in Persia committing assassinations without the person in question's sanity being threatened. Even before the rosy hours, he was always a tad bit mad. Scaring his mother and tricking her into thinking that the little shepherd statue was her wonderful, perfect son was only a small display of his insanity.

Breaking free of his thoughts, Erik was horribly disturbed by the fact that nothing would wash away those things. Staring miserably at the sink, he turned off the water and dried his hands. Slowly turning around, he zombie-walked to the couch.

Flinging himself down, the wretched man prepared himself for another nightmare-filled slumber.

* * *

><p>Sleep did not come. He decided the terrifying dreams of his past were too much to handle, and instead, he busied himself by studying his mask. He kept getting sore spots, but he had no way of fixing the small, annoying inconvenience. Flinging the object to the side, Erik sat up. He brought his knees up to his chin and put his hands together in a praying position. Thinking of the only prayer fit for the situation he found himself in, he whispered the words to the Almighty. He prayed until he was exhausted to the point where he fell asleep simply by blinking.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Erik, I love you!" Christine called out. The disfigured musician looked at her, eyes full of confusion. "I love you, Christine," he told her. He looked down at her perfect little face, examining her perfect little lips. Brushing away a golden lock from her cheek, he cupped her chin with his spider-like hands. He leaned closer to her. She raise herself up to him. He was amazed by what he thought could never be. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mask on the ground, forgotten. His eyes were glued to the girl in front of him. Their lips were so close together, only a petite finger would fit between. The girl leaned closer to him – now only a sewing needle would fit between -<em>

* * *

><p>The morning came too soon. The church bells chimed, signaling six in the morning. Erik gazed around the room. To his disappointment, Christine was not there, nor was anybody else there. He had been a fool to think that his dream was real!<p>

Sitting up, he felt less weighed down than before. Had his guilt been lifted?

_My guilt will never leave me, _Erik chided himself. However, he could not believe that lie. Standing up, he knew for a fact that he had been forgiven of his crimes as he realized that he had finally had his first joyful dream in his life. No nightmares haunted him that night, and he hoped they never would again.

* * *

><p>Time passed slowly. What was there to do? Nadir cocked his head to the side. A year free of Erik had left him extremely bored. His only activity before, after all, had been chasing after the mischievous magician and keeping track of where he went. There was no hope of doing that anymore. Erik was dead – he had seen the corpse himself.<p>

* * *

><p>Erik reached for the D flat. <em>What horrible things dreams are, <em>he decided gently. _No matter what happens in them – if it scars you for life or gives you the best moment in the world, you still wake up disappointed or scared._

Softly pulling the song to a close, the mysterious pianist closed his eyes. Opening them, he saw the house as it really was – light was streaming in through the windows, creating beautiful sunlight patterns upon the carpet. Erik stood up and walked onto one of the sun spots, feeling the heat radiating from the outside. The house was naturally beautiful. He hadn't seen it that way when he was younger; he had hated the house which had held him captive for nine long years. But now, when he had returned to the house of his own accord, he decided it was quite nice. It was paradise.

Reluctantly leaving the spot, Erik sat at the writing desk. He wanted to make peace with his old friend, Nadir Khan, and repair the friendship which had died out in the torture chamber, or maybe even before then.

Starting the letter, he let the words pour out of him, words that came straight from his soul. If he couldn't have Christine as a wife, he would have Nadir as a friend.

An hour later, the letter was finished.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Missed me? Anyway, hope you liked the story <em>so far<em>. Italicized because the story isn't finished yet.**

**Me: **Next chapter should come soon. Don't be surprised if it takes a week.

**Erik: **Don't be surprised if this annoying brat is dead by then.

**Me: **Yeah. Wait – what?

**Erik: **Nothing, nothing...

**Me: **Okay!

**AN: Review! I like reading your comments and predictions! It's very enjoyable, actually... but, I'm not begging. I don't beg. Begging would be like:**

_**AN: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!**_

**AN: I don't do that. So yeah, I like reading reviews. Have a problem with that? Because if you do, that's perfectly fine. If you don't... HIGH FIVE!**


	11. Murder!

**AN: Surprise! Hope you guys like this chapter! Oh yeah, "sorry" ahead of time for the cliffhanger...**

* * *

><p>Monsieur Khan's day went as annoyingly insane as possible. He had found a specific letter combined with other nonspecific letters and bills. Taking one look at the red, messy handwriting, the Persian man stepped back and collapsed into the armchair, eyes wide. <em>How is this possible? <em>He silently mouthed the words. It seemed that the Master of Illusions was not resting in peace after all...

Finally, he regained his senses. Pulling out the letter opener, he sliced through the envelope. Slowly unfolding the letter, he scanned the contents. As soon as he began, he instantly became frustrated. His madman friend was on the loose in some foreign country – that much was easy enough to deduce. The country was fairly close, too, as the paper was not aged, yet not close enough for Erik to come and visit in person. Suddenly, the writer's voice echoed in Nadir's head; _Always the inspector, daroga..._

The last line of the letter caught the daroga's attention;

_Do not try to find me, Nadir. I will find you. Pay heed to my warnings – remember the scorpion!_

And Nadir remembered that scorpion with blinding vividness.

* * *

><p>Erik scanned the morning paper, trying to find an article worthy of his attention. Finding one, he read the report with intense concentration;<p>

_**COUPLE MURDERED DURING BURGLARY**_

_M. Richard and Felicity Grosvenor were found dead earlier this week in their home. Their son said, though shaken by his parents' early ends, "The intruder was no older than I. He wore a mask to protect his identity, but I will find him and make him pay for what he has done to my family."_

_According to Charles Grosvenor, son, the murderer pulled out a knife and stabbed first the father until he fell, and then rounded on his wife. The son was able to make it out of the house before any damage was done to him._

"_I will never forget those eyes," Charles Grosvenor remarked. "They were full of hatred – no pity, no remorse for what he was doing."_

"Hmph!" Erik sighed as he laid the paper down on the table in front of him. Who would've thought that he would come to the only town in the world with another masked man? Of course, the two individuals had very different reasons for wearing the face covers. But they weren't all that different – murdering was an alike aspect, for example.

However, this cold-blooded killer brought death around for a completely different reason. Was he a mad man, an escapee from a nearby asylum? Or was he just a plain serial killer, plotting the deaths of anybody he could think of?

Erik, of course, hated humanity. He killed simply because he hated each and every person of the race, but he had never killed simply to kill. He had been driven to insanity just a year before, but even that had failed to bring out the serial killer inside of him. Even in Persia, when he had been ordered to kill for the sultana's amusement, he had never done so for the sake of murdering. He had done it to live.

_Yes, I suppose that is what I must do, _Erik replied to the righteous little voice in his head. Lazily strolling to the front door, he pulled on his cloak. The black cape billowed behind him, like an omen, as if he were Death himself coming to rob you of breath.

* * *

><p><em>Where to start? <em>The man asked himself. He pondered the question gently for a few moments, but then started to ask it more furiously. He was the Opera Ghost – he had eyes on everything!

_Yes, that might have been true before, but now you are far away from the Opera House, _the annoying, nagging, little voice in his mind reminded him. "Be quiet," he muttered.

Looking from left to right, he saw the obvious hiding spot for a murderer; the deep dark forest that covered the western part of the town. He doubted that the person in question would be there, but then again, it couldn't hurt to look, could it?

Briskly heading for the woods, he became aware of a strange noise that he hadn't heard in a long time. Glancing around, he spotted it. The noise's creator was just a few feet away from him, staying still in hopes of blending in with the surrounding grass. Bending over, Erik quickly snatched up the grasshopper and cupped it in his hands. Holding it brought back horrible, insane memories.

_**The grasshopper jumps high! It jumps jolly high!**_

Hadn't he warned Christine of that just a short time ago? And the scorpion... it drains the life out of anybody who comes near.

He had asked Christine to choose between him and death. She had taken so long to make her decision...

Was he truly that horrible, so horrible that she truly considered allowing the Opera House to be blown to pieces and killing everyone inside?

_I mustn't think about that now, _Erik reminded himself. Shaking his head, he swept his unyielding gaze back to his destination. The forest looked so large in comparison to the small, little grasshopper. Dropping the insect back onto the ground, he continued on his way to bringing the town murderer to justice.

* * *

><p>Stepping over the fallen branch, the man saw a glimpse of fabric. <em>What? Fabric? What is fabric doing out here in the middle of the forest? The sewing group is held in Madame Roux's home, so -<em>

And then he realized what was in front of him.

A small, portable cot was laid on the ground underneath a natural tent of branches, rocks, and leaves. Wires were strung from tree to tree, displaying drying artwork of phenomenal artistic ability. There was no doubt that Erik had stumbled upon the murderer's abode. Suddenly, a twig snapped.

And then he knew what was behind him.

"Monsieur, I am most displeased that you have found my living space. Now, I am afraid that you cannot leave this place alive."


	12. The Likeness of You

**AN: Guess what? I'm writing a new story! But don't worry, updates will come as often as they did before, so I'm going to be writing twice as fast. The sad part is that both stories are Kay based and that I'm not writing any Leroux stories. But that is of no consequence! Also, if you guys liked this story, you may or may not like the other one. I don't know. I'm not you. I'M NOT A MIND READER, OKAY?**

**Okay, so maybe I got a little crazy back there. Oh well; I'm just telling you that there is a new story up. It is called "Livre de Mort". Those of you who know what that means, good for you. Those of you who do not know French, you can look it up on Google Translate. I'm being mean and not telling you, so don't think that I'm going to in later chapters.**

**So anyway, this is the next chapter. I waited a few days before posting this so that you could have a chance to feel the full effects of the cliffhanger. I know that some of you were probably all like, "What happens next?" and "I hope sweet Erik's okay!" and "Who's this new guy?" and "&%%* &#%^". Okay, so probably not the last one, but you know what I mean.**

**Yeah, so this is a long author's note. Don't worry – this chapter is going to be longer than the others. That's right – this is a longer chapter than usual. By the way, if you don't like how the plot is coming along, please do not write anything nasty in the reviews. Nobody has yet, and I would like to keep it that way. Remember – nobody is forcing you to read this.**

**Sorry for the long wait! School started up, and you know what that does to someone...**

**...Signalling Chapter...**

* * *

><p>The alarmed man spun around. There, simply feet away, was a young man, around the age of fifteen. Erik's eyes went straight to the mask. The boy stood confused as he looked at the man who had trespassed into his home. They both stood quietly. Nobody dared breech the silencein the air.<p>

Then, the boy spoke. "It appears you have read that wretched article and have come to mock me, Monsieur."

_What? Why would I mock him? He wears that mask to hide his identity – it his he who is mocking me!_

"However," continued the boy, "you have signed your own death warrant! I must kill you now that you know where I live."

How the boy could make the deadly statement sound so wonderful! His voice was rich and beautiful, much like Erik's hypnotizing one.

"Ah, but I am afraid that won't be possible."

"And why is that?"

"Like you, I am a murderer. I assure you that if I wished, you would have been dead by now."

The boy froze when he heard that. Regaining his senses, he replied, "Is that a threat?"

"Yes. I hardly bother making threats, though..."

"The same goes for me. But now, what brings you here?"

"Must you suspect that I am up to something?"

"Yes."

"Fine – why wear the mask?"

The boy shook with anger. Furiously, he whispered, "You want to know why I wear a mask, do you? Well, see for yourself!"

He flung off the mask. Erik blinked and saw it. Horrified, he closed his eyes. He wasn't disgusted. He was disturbed. The boy's face looked exactly like his own. The words he had spoken the year before came flooding back to him.

"_I daresay there is some other poor soul with the same face as mine!" *****_

He had said that to Christine just one year before, and now he was face to face with the "poor soul" he had talked about. The thing about fate is that no matter how serious a situation is, it always quickly adds in irony to it. Harmless irony? No – cruel.

The boy maddened. "You, like so many others, thought you could handle the hideousness of my face! Look upon it! Look upon it! It will be the last thing you ever see in your wonderful life! The life denied to me! Look upon it! Look upon it, I say!"

Erik opened his cold, yellow eyes. His blood boiled – the boy thought his life was wonderful! The thought was quite hilarious and angering. In reply, he said quietly, "A wonderful life, Monsieur? I assure you my life was everything but!" He stealthily stepped to just inches away from the boy. Bending down so that his face was in front of the enraged, unmasked child, he reached to his mask and said, "Would you like me to remove this?" He questioned coldly.

The boy, upset, smirked, "It can hardly be worse than my own!"

"If you say so..." Erik untied the ribbons and dropped the mask. The boy stared, confused, at the man's face. "But...but...how? How is this possible?" He whispered.

The man hesitantly put his hand on the stunned boy's shoulder, not knowing if that was the right thing to do in the situation. **** **Quietly, he remarked, "This is the second time a coincidence such as this has happened to me, I'm afraid."

The boy stared in shock. "There are... other people who look... like us?"

"No, thankfully. There was a young girl with the same face as a person I knew..."

"...and..?"

"... I fell in love."

"What happened?"

Erik's eyes darkened. Speaking of Christine was quite hard, as was his mother. Slowly, though, he continued, "She left and married a Comte."

"Oh."

"..."

"What are you doing here, then? There are no Comtes here, are there?"

"None. This is the town I grew up in."

"The story was true, then... Mother wasn't making it up..."

"Pardon?"

"Mother spoke of a... if you don't mind me saying, a monster... that looked like me living in the house on the edge of town. I thought she had made it up to spite me."

"A 'monster'? I've been called much worse all my life." That was true, yet it still stung to be looked upon as a member of something other than the human race.

Erik continued, "My mother didn't care to name – she gave the job to the priest. She was a heartless woman. I ran away when I was nine."

"To where?"

"Anywhere. These woods. It didn't matter at the time, but I realized only days later that I should've stayed..."

"Why?"

"Gypsies. They caught me and made me display my excuse for a face to a paying audience."

"How did you get away?"

"When I was twelve years, I killed a man for the first time."

"How come?"

"Do you really want that answered?"

"I suppose it was a rather dumb question..."

"Anyway, I wound up in Russia and got called away to serve the khanum in Persia." He spoke with utter disgust, "She had me entertain her with a variety of methods – illusions, torture, and murder."

The boy stared in horror. _This man has been through all the tortures the world has to offer, and I? Have I been borne with his face destined to live through that?_

Erik continued, "I was there for three years. Then, the shah decided I knew too much, and ordered me dead. I escaped with the help of a friend. I went to Paris and helped build the Opera House there, and when the construction was complete, I lived there for ten years. That was the time I fell in love – she was an angel. A truly heavenly voice. She let me train it. Then... the Vicomte came."

"But I thought she married the Comte?"

"Yes, she did. The Vicomte and her were childhood friends and decided to become engaged. Some time passed and the Comte was found on the banks of a lake, dead. That made the Vicomte the Comte. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"So, the two married. I had foolishly fallen in love with the girl, so I came here to destroy all my feelings for her. However, I doubt that will ever happen."

"How come?"

"How come? Why, I was in love with her! One does not fall sincerely in love with a lady and come out of a situation such as that and get over their feelings in a short time!"

"Oh..."

The conversation fell silent, and the two disfigured men let their thoughts drift.

* * *

><p>* = Sadly, I do not have Kay's book for reference, and though I've been trying to look for it online, I have not found it. If you have the book, please comment the quote! Thank you!<p>

** = You can just imagine Erik trying to comfort the boy. Laugh; I know you want to!


	13. Boscherville Guest

**AN: Boy, was that a cute chapter, eh? Well, it was very necessary for the plot to continue. A lot of you are probably thinking "How is this story progressing? Does it even have a plot?". Well, it does have plot, so shut up and read. Or I'll shut up and let you read. Oh yeah, and SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY for the long wait. Guess who wants to be able to count on having two more up by Wednesday? ME.**

* * *

><p>The masked men stared at each other, then at the trees, then at each other again. Erik then had the intelligence to ask, "I have told you my life story. Will you return the favor?"<p>

The boy looked down at the ground, nodding. "My name is Jaques. Ever since I was born, people have hated me. My father went to the bar to drink, and my mother did nothing to stop him when he beat me. She actually liked it when I was hurt... she wished I was dead.

I ran away three years ago, when I was ten years. My _parents_" he annunciated the word angrily "were quite glad to see me gone. They moved to Paris just a month after I left. They hated me, I hated them."

Erik stared at Jaques, then questioned, "Why do you kill people?"

The simple inquiry made the boy hesitate. "I... well... it makes me feel... superior to others," he responded quietly. The two men became lost in thought. Gracefully, Erik broke the silence and said, "I suppose that I should head back to my house now... or are you still going to kill me?"

The teen's eyes widened. "What – I would never do that!"

"You had said just ten minutes ago that you would murder me, to put it bluntly."

"But that was before -"

"_Are you going to kill me?_"

"I – well, no... but -"

"That settles it, then. I will leave without being murdered, and you can stay here and pretend nothing has taken place. We both know that that is what will happen."

"I see. Good-bye, Monsieur... you have never told me your name!"

Erik was gone by the time Jaques had exclaimed this. All around, he heard the sad tone as the bells from the church in the distance sounded.

"_Forget me..._"

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><p>The situation had become to hard to handle for Erik, so he had resorted to slipping away unnoticed. Returning back to his house, he slipped through the entryway and after a paranoid glance around the place, he settled onto his piano bench. Hovering his bony hands above the keys, he cursed himself for even bothering with the hideous child. That wasn't even his place, to be sympathizing with a stupid boy.<p>

Erik's hands fell to the keys in defeat. Yes, it _was _his place to sympathizing with the boy. Who else would? The poor boy was a spitting image of him... so why didn't he stay to comfort him? The thoughts became guilt and ate at the pianist, who eventually couldn't stand the sight of his beloved instrument and had to throw himself into a pitiable heap on the sofa. Closing his bloodshot eyes, the monster fell into a peaceful sleep.

_There was nothing. Nothing surrounded him, and he was Nothing; the world he existed on happened to not exist at all. The world was engulfed in darkness, yet light streamed through the Nothing. But suddenly, through the Nothing, a Something was born, a Something that was him, and so now the world did exist. Besides him, Nothing existed, and he was terribly lonely, left to thoughts filled with Nothing. And thus did the Something die, and disappeared into Nothing._

He awoke. Staring groggily at his arm, he tried to remember if he had taken any drugs which caused the strange dream. Not recalling anything of the sort, he stood and glared at the room. He desperately wished to fall back to sleep, but he was too much awake to even try to rest. Suddenly aware to a pounding in his head, he pressed his head against the wall, assuming he had had one too many drinks the night before. He stood still as he realized that he did not have a "hangover" as he had not consumed alcohol, and that the pounding was really coming from the door.

Straightening out his mask as he flew to the entry in a blinding rage – disfigured men happen to not like being disturbed right after waking up – and threw the door open. Seeing who it was, his facial features relaxed as he invited the person in.


	14. Boscherville Visit

Nadir stepped into the house of his friend and glanced around, taking in the feeling of it all. Amazingly enough, the house was in good shape, which meant that either Erik was no longer under the influence of drugs, Erik kept his house in good shape, or Erik hadn't lived here long enough to destroy the place.

Being led to the living room, Nadir stared at the beauty and majesty of the house, thinking that this was the reason why his friend had bought the house. Opening his mouth to voice his thought, Erik hushed him and told him that no, he had not bought it for its looks. Stunned, the Persian rolled his eyes and continued to follow the owner of the house.

Soon enough, they reached the living room and took seats across from each other. Erik stared at his guest as latter the twiddled his thumbs, looking and studying everything in the room except for the man sitting in front of him. Astonished and completely annoyed that someone could waltz into his house and then decide not to do anything, the house owner broke the silence saying, "Daroga, if you simply wish to waste my time, I would advise that you leave this instant."

The Persian man turned to face him, slightly baffled – hadn't Erik been the one who sent the letter? - before standing up. He took his coat and shrugged it on. Briskly striding to the door, he opened it, stepped out, and slammed it shut. His friend could only look on as he marched down the front path and through the gate.

Erik hung his head in annoyance. What had compelled that idiot to come all the way from the city of Paris to the small town of Boscherville, just to sit and do nothing at all? Standing up, he walked to his humble piano and began to play.

He played through music of all types – Bach, Beethoven, Mozart – and just as he began Bach's Prelude in C, he was disturbed by a sharp wrap on the door. Continuing on with playing, he closed his eyes in anger. Why had the Daroga decided to come back? Well, he definitely wasn't going to be let back in, that was for sure.

Another knock came, and many more followed, making it impossible for Erik to keep playing. Standing up, he strode to the door and with much aggravation, wrenched the door open. His eyes bulged as he saw that it wasn't the Daroga. In fact, the person was the farthest thing from him.

The person standing at the door was none other than Erik Aucoin. The other Erik - the one who had opened the door - stood silent, almost _gawking _at the boy. However, it wasn't the boy himself that the man was shocked at. It was the tattered clothing and singed skin and hair that surprised him. There were burns all over his skin, but the worst of it was all over his face. He looked at the older man with a certain helplessness that one only feels when his life is about to come to an end, and promptly crumpled to the ground.

It wasn't worth checking for a pulse. Erik knew the boy was dead as soon as he hit the ground. If the pale skin and burn marks weren't dead giveaways, the lack of movement from the chest that signified breathing was.

Without another thought, the man began running as fast he could in the direction of the child's house. Already he could see the smoke coming from where the house was.

**Sorry, once again! I've had a huge case of writer's block, but yeah, you guys all probably hate me! It won't happen again, (I hope)!**

**I'm looking to finish this story soon. Maybe later I can make a sequel, but that'll be after I finish up the other stories. Don't want to fall back on those, do I?**

**:D I love leaving you all with cliffhangers...**


	15. Boscherville Saving

**AN: Well, well, well; look what we have here. It appears to be another chapter! Oh my, and it's by this lazy person over here! What a miracle!**

**Me: I can hear that, you know.**

**AN: I know.**

**Me: Jerk.**

**Erik: Someone talking about me? Or perhaps the Daroga?**

**Nadir: EXCUSE ME?**

**AN: Heh heh... story pop up now please! Thanks...**

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><p>Erik stood, panting, as he looked at the house that was in burning shambles. There were giant holes with fire bursting out of them, and all the windows had been smashed. The flames crackled, almost hiding a small sound, but the man heard it anyway. It was small and insignificant. He brushed it off as he tried to assess the situation.<p>

First, he was standing in front of the Aucoin household (or at least what used to be the Aucoin household) which was currently on fire. One of the Aucoin boys – Erik – had run to the man's house to tell him about the disaster and was presently lying dead on the man's porch. Third, the rest of the family was probably still inside the house. Erik cursed his luck and searched the area for a way in to the building. There was still the chance he could save them.

The door was blocked, and most of the windows still had too much glass in them for the man to even consider crawling through them. The holes in the wall were a different matter, and though the path inside from those entrances took much maneuvering and skill, Erik finally found himself inside the living room of the house. He tried not to remember that the aflame couches had once been a shade of green, instead of the bright, blinding, burning yellow it now was, or that the white walls were now covered in splotches of black.

He hesitated. How could he have been so stupid? He, who had mastered every art there was, who was a genius among geniuses, had been so stupid as to rush into a burning building without a plan. It wasn't like he actually had a way to get anyone out alive – the entrance he had come in through had suddenly been blocked off by smoldering rubble.

So now he stood, staring into the depths of the fire, wondering what he should do. _Perhaps, _he thought, _I can just end my miserable life here and now. I'll just burn to death, and nobody will know any better. It'll be better for all the rest of the world... I suppose Christine would be happy, too, even though I am dead to her..._

Standing in the midst of the flames, he waited and waited for the end of his life to come. The real end of the Opera Ghost would come about in this fire. He braced himself, waiting for his death.

A sudden sound made his eyes widen in shock. The sound was familiar – he had heard it before, when he was outside. He hadn't paid any attention to it then, but now he realized just what it was.

Coming to his senses, he searched for an exit path of the room. There was none. The revelation made Erik freeze. How was he going to save the wailing infant just a room away?

The crying continued. The man stared at the wall barring his way from saving her. Soon, the sound became too much to bear and he slapped his hands over his ears. An exhausted and guilt-ridden shine came to his eyes – perhaps he wouldn't be able to save Clarice, and the two of them would simply die in that flaming house. The small baby girl had so much to live for, and her life would be taken away. Erik had stepped into the house without a plan, and it would cost both of them their lives. It would be all his fault that they died.

He came to his senses as a smoldering piece of ceiling came falling down from above. The attack came by surprise, thus allowing only a small amount of time to dodge it, and even still, it whacked against his left arm and leg. Brushing off the injuries as best he could, he limped over to the wall and shoved his arm through the burning wall. Removing his fist, he stared at the small hole he had made. A smile of hope graced his lips as he began to tear away the bits and pieces of debris separating him from Clarice.

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><p>Soon enough, the hole was big enough for Erik to climb through. Wiping away the dust that had gathered on his hands and under his nails, he surveyed his work. It had taken him lots of time, and by now he was coughing from the smoke inhalation. Clarice had stopped crying a while before he finished, and he prayed that she was still alive.<p>

The heat in the room was becoming unbearable very quickly. From where he was standing, Erik could see that the flames in the other room were spread thickly throughout the room. He winced as he remembered that his whole "heroic deed" could have just been in vain. However, he felt a little more reassured as soon as he saw the crib was still untouched by the fire.

Crawling through the hole and into the baby's room, he saw with more detail exactly what the extent of the damage had been. The door to the hallway was open and currently being eaten by flames. Near the middle of the room was a pile of ashes, bones and pink fabric. _Well, _thought Erik, _now I know where Madame Aucoin has gone. What a shame._

He blinked. Why was he getting so sidetracked? He turned his attention back to the crib and slowly approached it. Staring down at the baby inside, he cocked his head in amazement. She was sleeping peacefully, probably without an inch of knowledge of what was going on outside her crib.

Scooping her up, Clarice's eyes opened and stared with wonder at the man holding her. Erik spared a glance at her before looking around the room once more, and staring at the remains of Madame Aucoin, nodded his head as if to say, "I will take care of your daughter".

By now the fire had burned a hole in the outside wall large enough for him to fit easily through. He did so, and finally out of reach of the smoke and burning flames, turned around to see the house once more before it was to be completely demolished by the fire.

The house, once pristinely painted pure white, was now burned bold black. The windows and doors were nowhere to be seen, and half the roof had fallen in. Holes blotted the walls of the building, and from the holes spouted fierce orange fire.

Erik, now violently coughing, was bent over and holding his throat in an attempt to stop. His vision was becoming foggy and his head was pounding. Each one of his breaths were labored, and both his left arm and leg were hurting more intensely than before. A rush of white coated people – he couldn't see their faces – came hurrying towards him as he collapsed and blacked out.


	16. Achieved Normalcy

**AN: So it appears that there is, in fact, another chapter! That is quite amazing.**

**Me: I've been very busy.**

**AN: Doing what, exactly?**

**Me: Um... ah, well...**

**Erik: *pulls out Punjab lasso* Are you trying to say you abandoned us?**

**Me: N-no! Uh, call the story now! Heh heh...**

**AN: That was the worst nervous laughter ever.**

**Me: I SAID GET THE STORY RUNNING.**

Through all his struggles through life, Erik had trained himself to rely on all his senses, and not just sight. Sight was a very untrustworthy thing – it gave one the power to judge another person. That was something that he absolutely loathed. Being looked down upon by the entire world had brought about that way of thinking for him.

But that was not the only thing wrong with sight. In the dark of the night, when terrors basked in the shadows, it allowed people the false assurance that nothing was wrong. Of course, they felt the goose-bumps – how could one not? – but as long as they didn't _see _anything, they were alright. That was the part of sight that Erik had always hated.

Now, however, as he felt a sharp, searing sensation resonate through his body, he willed his eyes not to open. He did not want to see what horror was creating such terrible pain in his body. He allowed himself to believe it was just his imagination, that everything was fine and there was not a cold, sticky substance flowing down his arm...

The pain very quickly became unbearable. Clenching together his fist – for some reason, his left hand seemed unwilling to move – he dug his nails into his hand to alleviate the feeling. Still he did not open his eyes.

Erik had always believed himself to be a strong person. Keeping that idea in his mind, he was able to continue to undergo the pain in that manner.

Finally, the cause of the searing feeling went away. Letting out a breath, he opened his eyes and stared – not at anything in particular, but at the room in general. There was a white ceiling, a white floor, people clothed in white, and objects – he couldn't really make them out – that were white. The only thing that he noticed wasn't white was that some of the people had red stains on them.

Even though his vision was blurred, he could tell what those stains were. He had seen enough blood in his lifetime to allow him to know what they were from a mile away. With a grimace, he noted that not only were they blood stains; they were _fresh_ blood stains, most probably from him.

That realization shook him. What had they done to him? Quickly, he turned his gaze to himself, only to see a red mess. A horrid thought came to him, and as much as he tried to shake it off, it continued to stay etched into his mind.

There was a sheet on top of him that prevented him from seeing his body. He attempted to pick it up, yet his left arm would not function. That only worried him more.

"Ahem."

Erik froze. He had forgotten there were other people in the room with him, what with his mind being so fogged. Perhaps they had given him some type of drug – that would explain why he didn't care that his mask was off.

"Monsieur, ah, Erik, you were covered in burns when you came here, and many of them were very serious. It is a wonder you are not dead right now." The doctor paused, nervously twitching his face. "We had to amputate your left arm and leg."

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><p>The world froze. Everything and anything stopped. All the other people in the room disappeared, leaving Erik by himself. His leg he could live without... but his arm? He would never be able to play an instrument again! His beloved piano, his wondrous violin... the only way for him to make music was to sing!<p>

Never mind the fact that he couldn't walk anymore, never mind the fact that he couldn't write letters anymore – he would never be able to play the flute, organ; anything! He was furious at the doctor for what he had done, but he knew that wouldn't get his arm back. It was a realization that scared him; his only redeeming quality – his music – was taken away from him.

He stared at the doctor with unfocused eyes, and opened his mouth to say, "Kill me now." Instead, he questioned, "How is Clarice?"

The doctor's eyebrows rose. "Oh, that is her name? Well, she is just fine, thanks to you. You saved her life, you know."

Erik let out a breath. Another thought came to him, and so he asked, "Does my face not bother you?"

"Hm? Oh, that's right! You had some horrible burns on your face – burned away your nose, I guess – so we had to fix it up. Want to see?"

He went numb. They fixed his face? His mother had brought him to a doctor once when he was very young, and the old man had said that there was "nothing to be done for the face of a demon". The surgeon had refused him because of his face, but these doctors, the ones with him here and now, had fixed his disfigurement since they believed it to have been caused by the fire.

So it had been an arm and a leg that he had paid in order to have a normal face like the rest of the world. To him, the cost had not been all that high. He had received the one thing he wanted all his life – to be like everyone else.

As he looked at his life, he realized that he was now fitting into the world. He had a beautiful baby daughter named Clarice, and loyal – though perhaps a bit fearful – friend, Nadir. Maybe he could live out the rest of his life to its fullest, although the lack of two limbs would certainly hinder him significantly.

He glanced back up at the white-coated man.

"Thank you, doctor."

~End

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><p><strong>AN: So that's the end! You all remember the part with Christine, right? Well, keep that in mind for when I get around to doing the sequel when I'm done with my other stories. Any ideas for what the sequel should be called?<strong>


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